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Demonology Classes Online – Darcy Stinke Excerpted from Flash Count Diaries: Evidence of Menopause and Natural Life | Sarah Crichton Books, an imprint of Farrar, Strauss & Giroux June 2019 17 minutes (4,557 words)

I walked up the steps of the Q train station, pushed through the turnstiles and walked out into the stormy night. As soon as I left the station, anger swirled in my chest, fierce and burning I walked through the dark trees of Prospect Park toward Flatbush Avenue Some people say that anger blinds them, unable to see the world around them I felt the opposite Anger focused my attention The wet asphalt reflected a red ATM sign At the corner market, I saw a policeman buying coffee in a white paper cup Down Flatbush passed the nail salon with its multicolored polished walls, then the vegetable stand, lemons and limes gleaming inside the glass doors, and on to Midwood, where I walked under wild trees, contrasting with the trees in the calm sunlight. A living person from a zombie The branch suddenly moved in the green street light

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I had a concern I wasn’t sure I could save money for my daughter’s college, and I developed a mysterious skin condition, hives rising up under my bra strap and around the waist of my jeans. Those were on a back burner At the forefront that night was anger with a single focus directed at my husband

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Mike has many great qualities, but cleanliness is not one of them He often jokes that when he was away, looking out his window, a neighbor thought his house had been burglarized and called the police, how he caught a jar of peanut butter on fire, and how he lived with water leaking out for years. of an overhead light fixture When I was dating long distance, when I visited her in Virginia, a raccoon who had learned to use her cat door came into the kitchen to go through the garbage at night.

Mike moved to Brooklyn in 2005 and we married in 2008. Our shared intimacy did not change his slovenliness She seemed to find her chaos fascinating, but to me, who lived as a struggling single mother ten years ago, her lack meant not only more work but also danger. My mother died a year ago at her home in Albany, New York. By the time I drove from Brooklyn, her body had been removed, but my brothers and I found her house in shambles, newspapers on the floor, drawers overturned, empty food containers scattered everywhere.

Mike’s disorder, for me, involved death I was afraid that his carelessness would somehow hurt me and my daughter He left his dirty clothes everywhere, left drawers and cabinets open in the kitchen, and never offered to cook, change the kitty litter, or make the bed.

Looking back, I can see that I was really mad at Mike’s mess I was alone with my daughter for ten years, and I forgot how easy it is for men to pay attention To agree with their work, their sports team, their computer I was angry at him for shouldering the burden of our shared household duties as I felt burdened and responsible for them.

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What marked this night differently, though, was how much I struggled with conflicting forces within myself Should I confront him or should I continue to stuff it? When I moved to Bedford, I found out that the sink would have dishes, the bed wouldn’t be made I also found his underwear on the floor, spit in the bathroom sink, and cake in the toilet. The cold wind blew small icicles on my face Dog shit and chicken bones littered the sidewalks and red stoplights swirled around like a giant ghost. I felt as if the wind was not only against my jacket, but flattened down, even through my skull, opening the door between me and Rag.

Like many women, I have been sad, not angry, for most of my menopausal life I pushed down and suppressed my anger until I could convince myself it wasn’t there. I delight in being divided, diaphanous It was a bit like being high, there was no single self Being weightless like a ghost Therapist Mary Valentis writes, “A woman may need to think about all the emotions she feels in order to avoid her anger.”

In the 2004 Anger Workbook for Women, Dr. Laura Petracic applies cognitive behavioral techniques to help angry women using worksheets and exercises. She emphasizes early on how culture in general is uncomfortable with female anger, how women are treated with anger as unladylike, how our anger is reprehensible, even human. Angry women are so threatening that they are accused of being possessed. Angry men are just men Angry women are stigmatized and stereotyped: shrill wives, crazy ex-girlfriends, feminazis. I recognize myself in the details of women who are so afraid of their anger that they control not only its expression but also their awareness of its existence.

I felt a connection to the concept in the book of Wrath and to the ghosts trapped within its pages In pencil, the former owner of the book examines his symptoms that developed due to his own tamped down anger Scary thoughts Laughing when irony hurts Disturbed dreams Slow motion suddenly refused to make eye contact with the other person Laughing when nothing funny is going on

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As a young woman, I was drawn to female characters whose suppressed anger turned into a sadness that made them feel unreal, ghostly. In Gene Rice’s novel Good Morning, Midnight, Sasha Jansen sees an older woman, an elderly version, trying on a hat through a storefront window. The woman’s expression is terrible, hungry, desperate, desperate “At any moment you expected him to start laughing the madman’s smile.” Sasha, abandoned by her husband after the baby died, lives in Paris, dreaming of a well-furnished room in a private hotel, instead of the dingy room in the cheap hotel she shares with another ghost, a man who always seems to stand up. In her white bathrobe on the landing

Embarrassed by her poor clothes, and the barren body underneath, Sasha wishes to disappear He understands invisibility to be a state of mind: “You should make your mind blank, neutral, then your face also becomes blank, neutral – you are invisible.” By the end of the novel, Sasha is so unhappy that a part of him splits off like a phantom “Who’s crying? The man who smiled at landing, kissed her and was happy It is I, myself, who am crying Another, Rice wrote, “How do I know who the other is? He is not mine. “

Lonely people, a 2007 study found, are more likely to believe in the supernatural. It is associated with a greater fear of home invasion in people living alone If you don’t have true friends, the mind creates evil spirits I was in my single years when I lived in Oxford, Ole Miss, in a beautiful house not far from Faulkner’s house, Rowan Oak. My first marriage was on the rocks and I was facing a future as a single mother One night after I put my daughter in her crib I was reading in my bed The great room was dark, only the corner of the reverse light illuminated the pages of my book The master bedroom was as big as my entire Brooklyn apartment Outside I could hear the wind chimes in my neighbors yard and the branches from the dogwoods rustling over the house

Victorian author Cynthia Asquith in her story “God Grant That She Still Lies” tells of a woman who finds the spirit of a dead girl entering her body and eventually her mind. “I don’t know how to explain it, but I mean I don’t have a real permanent emergency,” she tells her doctor. Asquith himself wrote of this sensation: “I feel very disappointed So indefinitely Someone is a different person when I’m with a friend and when I’m by myself Asquith felt himself a ghost In his stories, living and dead characters interchange themselves “I believe . . . ,” wrote critic Ruth D. Weston, “that Asquith has internalized a patriarchal idea that defies rational explanation. The true chill of “God Grants That He Still Finds” is less the human story’s struggle with ghosts from nearby graveyards, and more , alone, Asquith feels that “water has been released from a broken vessel—something spilling—to be sucked back.

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